RGL e-Book Cover©
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.
RGL e-Book Cover©
Everybody's, Jan 1914, with "Burberton and Ali Beg."
THE wet-and-dry-nursed turf ofMeadowbrook—sun sweetened green velvet on a ground ofiron—drummed to a devil's tattoo. There were otherintermittent noises. Ponies and men breathed hard. About once inevery thirty seconds the packed stands creaked under the strain;twenty thousand, of a class which keeps emotion underneath thesurface, would grip the seats and sway one way or the otheralltogether—throat-held, hypnotized, by the game that is toall other games as wine to water.
Through drumming of the hoofs—punctuating it—theclick-smack-click of mallet-nose on whitened bamboo ballcame at odd moments: now once, clean-clipped And hard, to befollowed by thunder as the ponies wheeled and raced; now in ahail-storm clatter, with an underswish of whips as ponies tiptoedthrough a scrimmage nervously. Presently the crowd would sobagain in unison, remembering at last to catch its breath.
"My conscience, but those gentlemen know how to lose!" saidMargaret Brunton almost to herself, and Burberton beside her cameout of a dream. He, too, had been watching spell-bound, and hefelt a little bit ashamed of having let emotion get the better ofhim.
"Any man can learn to lose," he answered—sneering rathermore than he intended. "They've lost. What would you have themdo—lose their tempers? I vote we make a move, before thecrowd starts rushing for the gate. Our men have won. There areonly two more chukkers. "There's no earthly chance that the otherside can pull the game out of the fire now."
"I'm going to stay and see them try!" said Margaret. "You goif you like: Mr. Howe will see me home."
"I'm dammed if he will!" thought Burberton, with a sidewaysglance at Sammy.
Samuel Hamilton Howe—gentleman of means and quiteillimitable leisure—was about the only bosom friend thatBurberton owned to. Sammy was a joke; every living being seemedto love him, but no man in his senses ever dreamed of couplingSammy's name with that of a woman. And Norman Burberton pridedhimself on being in absolute possession of all his senses.
He had no illusions of any kind at all. He believed he couldread human nature like a book, and he despised it in a rathergood-natured, condescending way that he had inherited (withoutaccessories) from "Old Man" Burberton, his father. Old ManBurberton had laughed, and taken what he wanted, leaving his onlyson more millions than were altogether good for him. NormanBurberton forgot to laugh as a rule, bought what he wanted, andgrew tired of it.
He had no least notion now that Margaret Brunton couldconceivably prefer Sammy Howe to himself, and jealousy in anycase was the passion he despised most. He was too masterful to bejealous He had his father's absolute self-confidence, and a veryconsiderable share of the railway magnate's judgment; he haddecided, after calm reflection during which he indulged in novainglorious flights of imagination, that Margaret Brunton waswaiting contentedly for him to propose to her in his own goodtime. He admired her patience, and paid her the compliment oftreating Sammy's attentions to her as quite undangerous.
But it suited his purpose to see her home himself. It was inline with his acquisitiveness. She was the only desirable thingthat his money had not yet bought him, and to have her with himon the front seat of his car—not yet his, but yet no otherman's; his when he chose to ask—gave him more delight thanhe had ever gained from actual possession of anything. Sammy on aseat behind would add to his enjoyment, and would serve toprevent the necessary other girl from interjectingconversation.
For all that he despised humanity so heartily, he liked thecrowd to notice Margaret Brunton when she rode with him, and hehad been conscious of a distinct feeling of irritation when thebreak-neck international polo game had drawn all eyes from herand her eyes away from him.
He had no interest in the game now. He believed in winning,and once won, the game ceased to interest him; he could not keephis attention on the last two chukkers, nor see any sense inwaiting for the finish. He sat still and watched Margaret Bruntonsideways, gloating—if the truth were known —over thethought of his ultimate possession of her, but to all outwardseeming just a little bored, and quite indifferent.
Limb for limb—line for clean-bred line— he mighthave been blood-brother to any of the eight who were giving everygood, grim ounce they owned on the drumming grass below. Thosemen were his crowd; the British four, too, would haveacknowledged him their social equal as readily as his owncountrymen did. And yet none of the eight could have been reallyhis intimate. There was an egotism about Burberton that seemed tocheck and dry up the opening confidence of everyone, exceptMargaret Brunton and Sammy Howe—just as they two were likerays of sunshine to the rest of the world. Either team would havetalked polo to Burberton as to an expert, and would have turnedaway at the first opportunity to be happy with Miss Brunton orSammy, neither of whom knew a solitary thing about it.
It was perhaps his trouble, after all, that Norman Burbertonknew too much and loved too little. He imagined that he loved thegirl beside him, whereas all he did do was to know, frompractised observation, that she was the sweetest, best-lookingwoman within his social horizon. And anybody could have told himthat, without any of his worldly, thirty-year-old cynicism tohelp make comparisons.
He watched her appraisingly; as she leaned forward beside him;silhouetted against the black of someone's coat beyond, she mighthave been a cameo. Even Sammy—something of an Apollo on hisown account, and every inch of him a dandy—suggestedreferences to "Beauty and the Beast;" Burberton compared theirfeatures, as a connoisseur of jewels might judge one stoneagainst a better one—and he looked like a connoisseur. Theylooked like happy children, all appreciative.
When the whistle shrilled at last and the blowing poniestrotted off the field to thunders of applause, Margaret Bruntonsat still.
"Lord, look at the crowd!" said Burberton. "Why didn't we getaway sooner?"
She looked at Sammy first, and then critically from him toBurberton, as if she were wondering where the difference lay; herlips were still slightly parted, her cheeks still glowing, hereyes still bright with the excitement of the game. So wereSammy's.
"I wouldn't have missed one minute of it! We can wait hereuntil most of the crowd has gone, and then Mr. Howe has promisedto bring one of the English team and introduce him."
"Heavens!" smiled Burberton, not ill-humoredly. He managed toinfer a compliment. "Sammy's getting useful! Go on,Sam—fetch him."
Sammy, who sensed something in the atmosphere that was notabsolutely peaceful —something faintly distasteful to hissunny disposition—was glad enough to go.
"Where did he meet any of the other team?" askedBurberton.
"When he was in India, I think. There must be somethingwonderful about that country. Mr. Howe came back quite differentfrom what he was before he went away —and look at thoseofficers! I'm told they learned all their polo in India. Theycertainly did learn how to lose like gentlemen."
"Do you mean that our fellows—?"
"Our fellows won."
"I don't see how that makes them—"
"They are 'our fellows,' and I'm glad they won. I always didthink well of 'our fellows,' as you call them; and now I thinkeven better of them. It makes me wonder how good they would be ifthey could all take a turn in India."
"India's got nothing to do with it!" said Burberton, with theair of a man of thirty who knows all there is to know. "Thosefour men are just natural-born polo-players—gentlemen—and they met a better team."
"I'd like to look at India," said Margaret, musingly.
"Why not?" Burberton pricked up astonishingly. When an ideacame to him, one could recognize his father's son. He glancedleft and right—made sure that Sammy was not on the way backyet—and settled down, as a man sits tight down in thesaddle when he means to test his horsemanship.
"I've wanted to say this for a long time—been waitingfor a chance to say it—didn't want to be banal and say theusual sort of things, and didn't want todo the usualthing, either. You've given me the idea."
"Wait!" said Margaret. "I think I know what you are going tosay. I don't want you to say it. And yet—Norman—Iwould rather listen to you saying it than to any other man."
He did not answer. That was Burberton senior again. The oldman had been famous for the art with which he reserved his verbalfire.
"I'm not comparing you, Norman, with any of those four men whoplayed. If I could compare you with anybody, I would not havebeen seen about with you so much. But—"
"But what?"
"Every single one of those four men— and Mr. Howebesides—has got something which you haven't. You could getit—you could get it if you tried."
"What is it?"
She shook her head. "Can't you see?"
"If I could see something I wanted I would get it or go brokein the attempt. I was going to mention something that I want verymuch—and mean to have—when you cut me short."
"Do you really mean to have it?"
He nodded. "You know I do!"
"Then find out what the other is and get it first. The restwill be easy!"
"I hate riddles!" he answered irritably. "Won't you tell methe answer?"
"You'll have to see it for yourself. I don't think Ican make it clear to you. Only this—you'll have tofind out that the world's worth living in before it will be worthliving in, and before you can help make some one else's lifeworth living too. I want you to find it out for yourself. I'msure Mr. Howe found it in India, for I saw the change in him whenhe came back. And now I've seen these four men play and lose, andI know they came from India, and —I may be wrong, but ithas made me think."
"I can't see what you're driving at," said Burberton.
"I know you can't. I want you to be able to see. You can'tfind it here, for you've got too much money and too many friends.Do you know anyone in India?"
"Not a soul."
"Perhaps that would be a good thing. I don't think Mr. Howeknew anybody—at all events until he got there."
Now there are few things more exasperating to a man ofmettle—and Burberton had more than the ordinary—thanto be compared to his own disadvantage with a man whom heconsiders his inferior, in wealth and brain and pluck andsportsmanship andsavoir faire. He liked Sammy Howe. Hevery nearly loved him. But he did it patronizingly.
"I'm getting tired of hearing about Sam!" he answered.
"And I'm getting very tired of waiting for him! There's Mrs.Boileau—look, she's beckoning. I'm going to ask her to takeme home in her car—where's Mildred? There she is—nowwill you go and explain to Mr. Howe that I couldn't wait?And— and—won't you wait for him and take him homeafterward?"
Burberton, with the perfectly good grace that he knew well howto draw on over a feeling of discomfiture, walked with her toMrs. Boileau's side, and later helped her into Mrs. Boileau'shuge blue touring-car.
"Got to wait for Sammy Howe," he explained, and not even thatsharp-eyed scenter-out of social happenings could draw the leastdeduction from his manner. Sammy Howe, ten minutes later, was thefirst to get a glimpse below the surface.
"Come on home, you interminable ass!" Burberton growled,seizing Sammy by the elbow.
"Why? Won't she wait? He'll be out directly."
"She's gone with Mrs. Boileau."
Sammy did not raise his eyebrows—nor did he askquestions. The first remark of any kind came from Burberton, whowas making new hole-records in the speed law of the state; and hedid not speak until the city was in sight.
"Know anyone in India?" he asked.
"Yes. Know one man well. Why?"
"Give me an introduction to him, will you?"
Now Sammy's eyebrows did rise.
"What's the use?" he asked. "My man's not a nabob."
"I asked it as a favor."
"Are you going to India, then?"
"What else would I want the introduction for?"
"Will you go and see him if I give it to you?"
"What else would I do with it?"
"Promise?"
"Yes."
"It's yours. You'll like him if you stay long enough. Chapcalled Ommony. When d'you go?"
"By the first ship that leaves New York!" sworeBurberton.
SO Norman Burberton began to studyIndia—from the wrong end; and for six toe-on-heel, hard-riding months he liked it. Men discovered he could ride and shoot as well as any of them, so things were pushed his way. He saw nothing of the mechanism —nothing of the insistent,sleepless maw that drains everlastingly the cleanest blood ofEngland and gives back nothing but ideals. All he saw was surfaceglamour, and subsurface poverty, and new ways of killing timethat interested him until the novelty wore off.
He stuck pig in Guzerat and quitted himself handsomely; a manwho can do that may be forgiven six of all the seven sins, andhis name went up and down the land in front of him. But it wasall the same thing that he had known before, in a differentsetting —amusement, with a bad taste at the end of it.
He killed his tiger from the back of a rajah's elephant; shota rhino (and few but royalty and viceroys may do that); shotquail; saw panthers fight to a ghastly, gory finish in a walledarena (that was in a native state, where Government had barelyseeped into the roots of things); drank deep, as a welcome guestshould, in the Gunners' Mess at Poona; and stood, at the end ofit all, unawed and dissatisfied, in front of the Taj Mahal bymoonlight.
It was not the mystery of India that appealed to him; he didnot care for it, nor even realize it. It was another mystery.
These men—and most surely they were men—who drankwith him and laughed with him, and rode neck and neck with himand risked their lives; who showed him a hundred kinds ofhospitality the West knows nothing of; who spoke hislanguage— drawled with the drawl that he hadcultivated—and drew his arbitrary line between what wassport and what was not—regarded him exactly as he hadregarded his own world back at home. They accepted him because hewas there and "a pretty decent sort," but that was all. There wasnot one man of all of them who was really interested in him, orwho so much as lifted the curtain for a minute from the heart ofthings that held them all except himself.
And he could not find the heart of things, however hard hetried. They had no secrets from him, or none that he could layhis finger on. He heard them talking "shop" in the club roomsafter dinner, and they were selfish and querulous and jealous ofone another, just like other men. Few of them admitted any lovefor India. Most if not all of them were men who could have earneda more than decent living anywhere, at almost anything theychose, and many of them were men of considerable privatemeans.
He saw men sickening with fever and anemia, and all the otherailments that the Indian sun draws out of the polluted soil, andhe saw other men who had sickened and gone home, and returnedagain for more. And he learned there was nothing in it foranybody except a pension—should he live to draw it.
They liked or hated one another; but they always understood.And invariably—always—all the time—drunk orsober—they treated him as some one who could not begin tounderstand.
"I suppose you're going to write a book on India when you getback home?" asked a judge of the Punjab High Court.
It was the dozenth time that he had been asked thatquestion.
"Would you read it if I did?"
"Certainly. It's good to see ourselves as others seeus—keeps our perspective right. I get clippings regularlyfrom the American papers, and they make even better reading thanthe London ones. Now—what is your impression of thecountry?"
But Burberton did not answer him. He was conscious of beingrather liked, but laughed at. At home, he had been neither likednor laughed at, and he had not cared. Now he cared and was angry,because his cynicism wouldn't work. It annoyed him that these menwho were certainly no better than himself should treat him asoutside the pale of understanding. And why should thev besarcastic?
"What is your impression of America?" he retorted, when he hadgiven his irritation time to fade away.
"I've been there six times," said the judge. "I generally gohome that way round. It's the only country in the world thatcould have produced you."
"You don't like Americans?"
"What is an American? I like you."
"I'd like very much to find out what holds you allhere—you, for instance. You—none of you—likeIndia."
"Like it? India's a beastly country to live in for any lengthof time—drains the life-blood out of you."
"Then what keeps you here?"
"You've been all up and down the country. D'you mean to sayyou haven't found that out yet? What are you going to donext?"
"Home, I think. No—I've a promise to keep first—aman named Ommony to visit —ever hear of him?"
"Not Ommony of the Woods and Forests by any chance? Visit himby all means— he'll give you the answer if anybodycan."
"Who or what is he, exactly?"
"Exactly? Why, he's Ommony of the Woods and Forests. Go andvisit him and see."
"How do I get there?"
"Train — about five hundred miles — change atAhmadabad for Tikpur—tonga sixty miles to the edgeof the reservation— then ride, unless thetonga roadis through the forest already—ride and find him."
HE knew now how alone he was. He realized, asthe squeakytonga jolted him along the new-made road, thatloneliness— and nothing else—had been the troublewith him He was a specimen to other people—just as othershad invariably been to him. Good, grown men looked at him, anddined and rode and talked with him, and did not care. He knew,now, that he wanted them to care.
And as he realized his loneliness, the border of the forestswallowed him and road andtonga, and the silence settleddown on him as if he had been dead long ages. The trees and theoutskirt changed to greater trees; the sky became patchwork spotsof blue between the branches, and thetonga-driver ceasedhis singing—tried to begin again—and stopped. Onlythe clip-clop of the ponies' feet and the shrilling of the oil-less wheels disturbed the stillness; and the view was shut off by endless rows of giant tree-trunks that leaned back like a cordonof policemen to restrain the bursting verdure.
"I'll go—and stay one night—and come away again,"swore Burberton. "Two days of this would drive me mad!"
But he drove for two days through the forest, until he couldhave shrieked at the gloom and silence. At night he stayed in alog-cabin that a road-builder had left there. Once or twice inthe night he heard the baying of a distant wolf-pack; andonce—as he walked the stamped-earth floor—he pausedand listened to a footfall. Something heavy, with soft feet, cameand seemed to listen, and went away. After that the only soundwas of the moths that fluttered round his lantern, and whenmorning came there was a track down the middle of the floor wherehe had paced it. He would not wait for breakfast; he wanted togallop back into the sunshine, and would have done it; only thetonga ponies could not gallop, and it was a day's driveeither way. So he drove on.
By midday of the second day the New York that he knew andhated seemed to have been paradise, and the only hell was hereamong the trees. Ommony must be the arch-administrator of hell,and Margaret Brunton, who was lost to him, the Queen of Heaven.He dreaded meeting Ommony—hated him before he heard himspeak or saw him—hated himself for being such an idiot asto leave luxury and sport and company for this—and fellasleep.
It was a devil that awoke him—a devil with muddied hairthat reached down to his shoulders, with a tiger's claw suspendedfrom his neck, and barely a rag of clothing— a red devilwith a long knife tied to his waist, who glowed in the settingsun that shone huge and angry in a gap between the trees. Thedevil tugged at him, and Burberton descended from thetonga like a man who dreamed. For a second he entertaineda wild idea of shooting, but his guns were cased and underneaththetonga seat.
"Are you Burberton?" a deep, mellow voice called from amongthe trees. "Come along. I'm glad to meet you."
He followed the voice, and found a straight-backed man wholeaned against a tree and looked like part of it; his helmet andcoat and puttees were all weather-stained, as if Mother Naturehad made them too. He said nothing further, but shook hands andturned his back and led the way along a forest path. Burbertonglanced back, with a thought for his guns and gear.
"Nobody steals anything hereabouts," said Ommony—who hadnot looked; he had heard the turn—he was a forester.
"Wouldn't dare, I suppose?"
"Wouldn't want to."
They strode along so fast that Burberton had difficulty inkeeping up. Ommony went ahead through the tangled undergrowthwith the gait and tirelessness of a shrimp-catcher in the surf,and the naked, mud-matted devil trotted behind, silent andtireless in his element. But the pace told on Burberton.
"How do you keep yourself from growing crazy here?" he asked,hoping to gain time by conversation.
"By thinking of the forest. Thought I would go crazy when Ifirst came. Thought of myself—think of the forestnow—keep sane."
A minute later Ommony noticed his heavy breathing and sloweddown. "I beg your pardon," he said, "that was stupid ofme—I forgot."
They emerged soon into a clearing, where a wood-and-mud brickbungalow stood framed in a garden, with a fence around it. Therewere native servants busied about the place, and on the smallveranda a grizzled old man waited, who salaamed and smiled atsight of them. He looked like the Peace-God's older brother.
"How often do you see a white man here?"
"Hardly ever. Have a drink," suggested Ommony.
The old man had arranged the chairs for them on the veranda,and they sat down facing each other. Burberton studied his hostat length, but Ommony seemed to have been satisfied with half aglance. If he looked at Burberton at all it was sideways—not slyly, but as a jungle denizen that watches even whileit rests.
"Know Hamilton Howe at all well?" asked Burberton, bursting tospeak, but at a loss for subjects.
"Yes. Had him here a month—five—six years ago.Cured him."
"Of what?"
"Not listening."
Burberton stared hard, between sips at a long cool drink. Itdawned on him that Ommony was always listening.
"What do you find to listen to?"
"The forest. Stay on and I'll show you."
A string of naked, lean savages emerged into the clearing,bearing Burberton's luggage on their heads. No one spoke to them,but they filed round behind the bungalow and stowed it allsomewhere; Burberton could hear the thud as the packages werelowered to the floor.
"You seem to have good servants?" he volunteered.
"They and the forest taught me nearly all I know. They werebad at first—but I learned. Now there are none betteranywhere."
They kept silence then until the sun went down with Indiansuddenness and the black night glowed with moving phosphorescentdots. A little breeze sprang up and the ghostly trees respondedto it until the night was full of silence rendered audible, andBurberton thought that the drums of his ears would burst.
"Dinner-time," said Ommony, so suddenly that Burberton wasstartled. "You'll find a bath all ready in your room."
He found more than a bath waiting. His dress-clothes wereunpacked and laid out for him on the bed.
"Is Ommonysahib married, then?" he asked the grizzledservant. The old man did not understand.
"Memsahib hai?"
The old man shook his head.
So he dressed himself, stiff shirt, white-silk waistcoat,patent-leather shoes—and laughed at his reflection in theglass. He suspected that the whole thing was a mistake on the oldservant's part, and that Ommony—in khaki, with his sleevesrolled up—would laugh at him. The laughter, he thought,might serve to break the dreadful silence.
But he found Ommony waiting for him at a snow-white dinnertable, in a suit that lacked a dozen years of fashion but in ashirt that was immaculate.
"Do you always dress for dinner?"
"Of course," said Ommony. The question seemed superfluous.
It was a six-course dinner, beautifully served, and nothurried over. Ommony appeared to be astonishingly well-informed,and said nothing of his forest. Burberton had expected to bebored with interminable details about woodcraft and other mattersof indifference. Gradually Ommony drew Burberton on to talking ofAmerica, and then he listened—keeping the monologue goingby a deftly inserted question here and there.
"Up at dawn," Ommony said at last, in a momentary pause.''Better go to bed."
"What time is it?"
"Midnight."
Norman Burberton stared harder now than ever. He—theblase, money-weary cynic—had talked, and had beeninterested in his own talk, for four long hours on end. And onthe table between them stood a bottle of Madeira still half full.This was wizardry.
"I was thinking of leaving in the morning," he said. "I justlooked in on you because I promised Howe I would—"
"Howe wrote me. I answered him. I promised him I'd keepyou."
"I—"
"Try one more day—then answer."
"But—"
"You're all right —just as he was. You don'tdrink— you don't boast— you're intelligent—stay on—you'll be glad afterward."
"I'd go crazy."
"Try a day of it —two days—before you answer. I'llshow you things you never dreamt of."
They had gone out to the veranda, and Ommony had moved himselfaway from the light that streamed through the open door; hisvoice came like a ghost's from the black darkness.
"Don't be afraid. All that—" Burberton could not seehim, but he knew as well as he knew that it was dark that Ommonywas stretching out his hand toward the forest—"will healyou; it won't hurt you."
"I'm not afraid of anything," said Burberton.
"Then stay."
"I see what you mean. You don't see a white man veryoften—you're lonely— that's it?"
"Stay for that reason if you like."
So, with a little glow of virtue undermining his feeling ofself-sacrifice, Burberton agreed to stay on for a day or two. Hedid it a little condescendingly and very grudgingly; and becauseof the darkness he failed to see the smile on Ommony's firm,weather-beaten face.
BURBERTON never remembered afterward all thedetails of the month that followed. They were like a dream,between the evening of his former life and the morning of hisreawakening. Ommony—lone-handed inresponsibility—ruled, watched, and listened to eighthundred square miles of forest; he was part of it, as were theanimals he knew, and the naked forest-helpers who seemed tounderstand his thoughts; and he made his guest free of all ofit.
He said little at any time, but he showed untiringly; and hetaught Burberton the secret of the silences, that are neversilent when one listens to them. And Burberton stayedcondescendingly (at first)—revolted (that was on the thirdday)—stayed on a little longer out ofcuriosity—stayed yet another week because the fancy seizedhim, and then—threw his heart into the thing andstayed.
Week after week they rode together under rioting waves ofbranches that filtered the fierce sun grudgingly through awonder-mesh of green; or galloped boot-to-boot down twenty-mile-long glades, hand-hewn and goat-grazed to keep thefires in check. They watched the sambur feeding, nose upwind, andcame on the wild pig rooting in the clearings. The whole jungleand its occupants were an open book to Ommony, and he showed itall until the feel of it crept under Burberton's skin.
Once, three weeks after Burberton's arrival, when they hadbreasted a rock-and-jungle rise by a roaring waterfall, Ommonysaid suddenly, "I'll show you Ali Beg;" and they dismounted andcrept cautiously between the boulders and lay side by side,peering through the jungle-grass.
"What's Ali Beg?"
"Look."
Careless in his strength, sun-bathed in a rock-strewnclearing, newly gorged, a tiger lay and licked himself, andBurberton, with held breath, watched him—strangely enough,without a white man's lust to kill. Then Ommony stood up head andshoulders above the grass and whistled; and fifty yards away thebrute leaped to his feet and faced him, his tail swaying gentlyfrom side to side, and his huge fangs showing.
Ommony smiled back. He had no rifle in his hands. "No goats,Ali Beg!" he warned in a level voice. "Remember— leave thegoats alone!"
At the sound of his voice the great, sleek brute turned andstrode away, swaggering, with his weight hung down between hisshoulder-blades, and not once looking back.
"He's past his prime," said Ommony. "He's getting lazy. Nexthe'll get stiff. Then he'll find goats easier than sambur.Then—"
He looked down, and almost from between his feet a nakedrifle-bearer rose. But it was always that way; men seemed to cropup from the jungle to obey his thoughts.
"Almost seemed as if the tiger understood you," saidBurberton.
"He understands that I rule this jungle, and I understand him.That's enough. There are five like him in the forest, and theymayn't kill goats or men—that's all."
He sat down and signed to the boy to bring the tiffin basket;he almost never gave a spoken order, but he absolutely never wentunwaited on.
"A hundred years ago there was no forest here—nothingbut a wilderness and an occasional clump of trees. It's growntwenty-five per cent, in my time."
"Feels like your forest, I suppose?"
"No. Did at first. Now I belong to it— that's thesecret. I didn't know anything until I let the forest take holdof me. It gave me all that's worth having—peace—strength—understanding—just as soon as I left offhating it and put out all I had. You've got to listen toit—listen all the time; then, after a while the foresttells you, and you can use your knowledge on the forest and behappy."
"I don't doubt anything you say—but what's the use?What's the end you're aiming for?"
"Ask God and the Government! The villagers think it's all tograze their goats in, and for fuel and building poles. Ourfriend, Ali Beg, imagines it's his hunting ground.
These jungle-wallahs—who know it all and tell me allthey know—think I own the forest. And I know I'm itsservant. Did it ever strike you that in some ways you're like AliBeg?"
"How d'you mean?"
But Ommony was not given to repeating things.
Night after night they dined in semi-regal state, dressed assahibs, lest the forest take a too strong hold on them andcause them to forget their birthright. And from dawn to dark theyrode or strode through growing jungle, inspecting fire-lanes,attending to the planting of the naked places, and seeing thatthe goats were kept within their grazing limits.
"You sec, don't you?" said Ommony one afternoon, in one of hisrare bursts of speech. "You can't stop the forest growing. Youcan swear at it, and hate it, but it grows. Care for it, love it,stamp the fires out, guard it, and it grows better. But you mustlisten—always listen!"
"Why should I listen? I'm not going to start a forest."
"I know you're not. You're going back into the outside worldin three days' time. Don't go like Ali Beg. Listen andremember!"
"What's Ali Beg been doing?"
"Killed three goats a little after dawn— one for food,and two out of sheer wantonness."
Some strange conceit seemed to tickle Ommony, for he chuckledto himself. "You shall kill Ali Beg—you alone." he smiled;and after that he was silent until dinnertime. Before dinner,though, he gave certain orders to the hangers-on who clustered tothe rearward of his bungalow.
He was silent all through dinner, even for Ommony, who hadlearned to love and listen to the silences, and as usual it wasBurberton who broke the spell at last.
"I like you, Ommony," he said; and it was the first time inhis life that he had ever said that to a man. "I'd like to seemore of you, and you've made me keen on forestry. If you'll cometo America, I'll buy you a forest—a big one—and putyou in charge of it, and pay you five times over what you'regetting now."
"I'll tell you a little story," answered Ommony. "Listen. Oncea trading company that happened to be English came to India, andwon the country by the sword. Notice the parallel: once a manbecame a millionaire by seizing opportunity. If you go deep downto the root of things you'll find it hard to justify cither ofthem. Well —the company grew fat and lazy, and talked about'inalienable rights.' The country groaned, and was impoverished;the company grumbled at the selfishness of native India. Then thecountry mutinied. You know the history. The company was spewedout and extinguished. It left the forests bare and the peoplestarving. It had never listened. Then England came and didlisten; and look at India now."
"But you don't imagine, do you, that your Government ispopular among the inhabitants? Why—they'd kick you all outto-morrow if they dared begin!"
"If we left India to-morrow do you suppose there'd be a foresthere in ten years' time—or an acre under irrigation? Ifsome ofyour rich men—the men who work, Imean—the men who listen and then give out what they'velearned—were put out of business—stripped—whatd'you suppose would happen? India used to be a huntingground—for money; then it became a burden—then aresponsibility, and now—man alive, it's fun! It's like amother with her child; we feed it—it drains ourlifeblood—it isn't grateful—but wc get back whatnothing else can give us."
"I don't quite see the parallel, as you call it. I haven'tbeen spewed out."
"No? I wish you could see yourself as you were a month ago!You were Ali Beg. Go back and give."
"You mean give money?"
"No, you idiot! Give yourself."
LONG before dawn next morning fifty or more naked jungle-coolies scattered in a semicircle through the forest; andas day broke, when the opalescent mist was lifting and the leaveswere taking on a first faint glow of gold, Burberton stood alonein a clearing, breathing the cool morning air.
There came a crashing through the undergrowth. The fiftyjungle-men were as silent as the tread of Nemesis; but the greatstriped brute they dodged and worried on from tree to tree wasangry, and a tiger can be as silent as a snake or as noisy as abuffalo, just as the fancy seizes him. Ali Beg chose to give thejungle notice of his coming.
There came a pause—silence—and another crash.Then—head and shoulders protruding through theundergrowth—the tiger came to a stand and glared, twentyyards away. There was a sound behind him—the breaking of atwig—no more, but notice of the closing in. He glancedbehind him; there were fifty behind him he could not see, and onein front he could; so he came with a rush and aspring—twelve feet in the air—a flashing, furiousyellow streak, that tore the wind, white-fanged, claw-tipped, andsnarling. And Burberton dropped him as he came, with a straight,clean shot, up and under, that tore through the breast andbackbone. He fell two yards away.
"Bass!" said Ommony—the word that through theEast means "Enough. That ends it. It is finished."
"I'd no idea that you were near me!"
"No? Did you think I'd leave you to the mercy of a driventiger? That was a good shot. Your nerve's in fine condition; butit might not have been. I've had him covered all the way fromwhere they flushed him. You should have fired when he firstshowed —I all but wiped your eye for you."
"I'm glad you didn't. Glad he fell to me."
"Don't let his ghost haunt you, that's all."
"I'd like to stay on and get another one."
"No. One Ali Beg's enough for any man. Go now. Get back to theplace where you belong. I belong here, and you don't. Pack upyour trunks and go."
"Won't you change your mind and come with me?"
"I? I'd no more leave my world until my time's up than you'llcare to leave yours two years from now. Go back and remember whatI told you—listen, and then give."
THE Secretary of State in India—gray-haired from forty years of worry—did tell a few friends ofthe visit paid to him by Burberton; but they were chosen friends,and the secret was well kept.
He offered millions upon millions. He said: "Here I am, andI'm ready. You need money—it's notorious, and I've gotmoney; put me to work, and you can have the use of all of it!"But the Secretary shook his head.
"What we need is men," he answered.
"But—millions—think what you—what wc coulddo with millions!"
"We could get millions in a week. We can borrow them at threeper cent. We could get a tenth of what you offer from almost anyMaharajah, if we'd so much as add one gun to his salute. We needthe men to use the money and you can't buy them. If you want togive money there's a famine relief fund open—there areseveral universities in need of endowment—the trusteeswould be very grateful."
"Oh, I could do all that at home if I cared to. I want towork."
"Can't you work at home?"
"But why not here, if you need men?"
The Secretary shook his head. "We need men whose hearts are init permanently," he answered. "We have to train them, and theyhave to start at the very beginning. You'd never do. Try your owncountry."
But afterward when he told the story to his friends, hisverdict was: "He'll go a long way, that boy will. He's got theidea." And the consensus of opinion was with him.
THE other end of the story is better known —howBurberton went back to America, and what he has done there since.Margaret Brunton said that she had loved him all the time, andnobody ever doubted her. He met her at a dance, one week afterhis return, and no one was surprised when their engagement wasannounced fourteen days later. But she, and he, both kept thesecret of exactly how it happened.
"What will be your next amusement?" she had asked him, after aconversation in between two dances.
"Next? I'm going to make this country hum! I'm going to makeit sit up and take notice! The old dad's business will do allright to start with, but that's going to be child's play to whatfollows. I'm going to pick good men and turn 'em loose to dothings—make things—create things—oh, you watch!I'm going to live!"
"And are vou going to marrv me first?" she asked."Or—"
That is the true, inside history of their engagement.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.